Drosselmeyer's Story (Kapitel des Erzählers)
by Lizabelle TALI
Summary: This is where the epic tale begins. This tragic story is what started everything. This is the story of a man...who died.
1. Chapter 1

**Drosselmeyer's Story ~ Kapitel des Erzählers ~ Prelude  
_(Drosselmeyer's Story ~ Chapters of a Storyteller ~ Prelude)_**

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_(THE DRILL: I hereby pronounce having no claim to Princess Tutu, or any of its characters.  
That honor solely belongs to the creator, who I am ever-so-jealous of: Ikuko Itoh.  
His series' affiliations include the animation studio Hal Film Maker, ADV Films, Kaoru Wada, Ritsuko Okazaki, and all other advocates to the production.  
'Til death do myself and this loveable series part.)_

Darkness closes in on Gold Crown Town once again. Thankfully, the night that comes doesn't last forever, like that tremulous day five months ago.  
That day, a villainous ghost of a man summoned a terrible monstrous crow, so vast he cast a shadow on the entire town. The villagers all turned into crows, with the exception of a few: a knight, a haughty, knowledgeable (amateur) writer, a prince, the crow's captive fledgling (a beautiful girl), and a duck.  
That duck, now speckled with a few white feathers, stares at the half-moon on this cloudless spring night, reminiscing the battle. Suddenly she shakes her yellow head furiously.  
_No, no! This won't do! I'm breaking my promise.._

It was soon after that day, when she, with the help of her knight and friends, defeated the evil crow, the Raven, with a power they unleashed together called "hope". This banished the Raven and his creator, the evil ghost of a man. The knight left his sword and used the power he inherited from the villainous man for the purpose of good. With the power to turn stories into reality, he held the injured duck in his arms. He rewrote the five gates of Gold Crown that were destroyed in the battle back to normal. Slowly, the fairytale creatures written by the villain turned into normal animals and humans, and the knight who dropped his sword for the pen became the closest companion to the duck, named Duck.  
But it was after those five gates were restored that the former knight Fakir thoughtfully stared at the stone walls and spoke. He asked Duck to make a promise: neither of them could ever think of the past again. Their pasts were conducted by an evil man's writing beyond the grave. From then on, their past lives were no longer relevant. They agreed to start anew, and to forget.

However recently, nights like these bring those memories back to her. A pang of guilt from the broken promise chills her feathers.

She heads to the bed as Fakir leaves the bathroom, draped in a towel and long trousers. His emerald olive hair still drips from the shower, but his eyes, just a slighter shade of green, are like the glassy lake outside of their comfortable cottage. They do not tremble like the knight's. They are confident, and they are peaceful, and they brim with love as Fakir turns his attention to his feathered companion.

"You've grown pretty used to the bed, I see."

She tumbles in the sheets to express her comfort, and he chuckles at the sight of the duck acting so human. He could understand; afterall, there was once a time when... Before thoughts of the past enter his head, he flips his long bangs from his face as a distraction, and plops himself onto the linens. Sitting up, he watches Duck, like every night, to be sure she doesn't fly off . In the beginning, she was restless about living together. She still acted like a... Well, it didn't matter. He wouldn't allow Duck to be sleeping outside in the cold. He knew well enough how ditzy she could be. Because it was Duck, he convinced her to sleep in his bed. He couldn't have her doing stupid things, since she was so small and delicate-looking. Looking at her now, she still appears that way.

Fakir knows better, that she is strong, but not in the physical sense. He strokes the side of her face with his index finger. With one wing stretched over the pillow, legs drooping into the folded sheets, Duck is fast asleep. Which means...

Fakir straightens up and walks towards the nearby desk. He picks up a feathered pen with his right hand, an ink well and parchment with his left.  
He could now start writing without her noticing. He lights a candle and begins his secret nightly routine.

Things haven't been going well for him. He dips the pen and keeps a steady hand over the paper. Eventually, a black drop soaks into the paper. Nothing comes to him. Nothing has come to him since that time, when he wrote the town back into restoration. For the past few months, it's driven him crazy. He watches the candle burn, and whispers in frustration. "Why?" He angrily grips his pen, but the empty paper frustrates him even more. The pen sets into the ink well as Fakir pushes his fingers against his forehead. "Why...will nothing come?"

"How _disappointing_."

Fakir's green eyes widen and flood with fear. _That's not Duck's voice..._

"You are a blood heir, and yet your talents run so dry. Dry as a well!" _It couldn't possibly be_, he denies the thought, but it's not enough. He must affirm it.

"Whoever you are, get out." A second of tense silence follows. He gets up from his chair and scans the room. He glances at the bed to be sure Duck is safe. Her soft, almost inaudible whistles calm his nerves.

"You still haven't realized it yet, boy?" Fakir spins around and faces a silent cement wall. The voice keeps echoing... in Fakir's head. "We haven't had a good chat in awhile. By the way, you won't find me. I'm in a place you can't see me." Fakir starts imagining the sounds of cogs, and he shakes the insane assumption out of his mind.

"You are an ancestor?" he asks, both apprehensive and hopeful. His conflicted emotions show in his face, on a spinning cog in Drosselmeyer's black abyss. The old ghost of a man leans forward in his levitating rocking chair, resting on the flat surface of a massive, rusty unmoving cogwheel. "Answer me. You are, aren't you?"

Drosselmeyer sighs heavily, disappointed in the deduction skills of the boy who inherited his powers. "Yes... Yes, I am. I am an ancestral spirit." It's probably best to just go with Fakir's convoluted ideas. Realizing this, his eyes suddenly spark with inspiration. "I have come to see what's troubled you in the past fort-night."

Fakir rubs his head. "Troubled me?" He sits in by the desk and sighs with exhaustion, while Drosselmeyer mixes a teacup with a dainty spoon in suspended animation. "Honestly," Fakir grumbles, "I'm hopeless. This cursed blood," he raises his arm to look at the bulging vein in his writing arm. It's been looking a bit strange lately... "this damned power does not even a drop of good for a mind that no longer works." With a sudden need of effort, he slowly grips his quill and raises the tip to the candlelight. It's dry. "Two moons have passed since I resolved in myself to help Duck. They have been two full moons of empty thoughts." His breathe fumes. "How am I to save her when nothing will come to me?" He can't bring himself to look at the duck in his bed. In a voice too soft for Drosselmeyer to hear, he admits, "she is obviously not happy". Truthfully, he's been thinking too. Everyday, he wonders if he's the only one breaking their promise.

Feeling terribly guilt-ridden, Fakir speaks to the spirit again. "I can't grasp it. It all came so easily when," he hesitates. He's thought of it, but never spoken it. "...when the Raven was defeated and the town restored. Why did the quill stop when I considered Duck's happiness? All I wanted was to restore at least a voice to her-"

The voice abruptly stops him. "You pitiful son!" Fakir nearly jumps, as it bellows in his head. "You son of my son of my son! You wretched excuse of a writer—no, protege!" A dark chuckle follows. "How could anyone possibly consider one such as yourself a real writer." Drosselmeyer allows the words to sink in and disarm Fakir's heart a bit. He sets the stage for a terrifying revelation. In the dark void, surrounded by cogs, he transmits a cryptic laugh into Fakir's head.

"You have considered it, have you not?"

Fakir's hairs rise from the laughter, then wonders what could have brought on such a question. "What are you talking about?" he asks.

"How you became accessible to these powers, of course!" His skin pricks, and he is suddenly conscious of how cold spring nights can be. The mockery in the voice of this ancestor is eerily familiar. He wonders again what exactly this spirit is trying to convey.

"I," he hesitates, "inherited this power."

"Ah ha! Therein lies the mystery," he says with another hair-raising chuckle. "I've heard less famous men say, 'the job of an artist is always to deepen the mystery'. What blaspheme! It is art solely because the mystery is all-too-clear in this case."

"What are you rambling about?" Fakir rests his shoulder on the desk and lifts his head. His eyes widen with understanding. "What...are you getting at?"

His arm gives way and he falls onto the desk, his right arm shaking uncontrollably. _It won't stop shaking!_

"Ah, that's _another_ mystery!"

Fakir struggles to hold his arm down. After a few seconds, the seizing quells, and he answers the spirit. "The mystery, as you say, is the fact I have his blood. I still don't see you're intention."

"It's simple," the voice, now calm, replies. "Aren't you curious as to what ties us together?" Fakir remembers his conclusion just before his arm went into a fit. "Are you not interested in the one who helped Drosselmeyer's family line extend?"

_~Now, dear reader, let me introduce to you, the grain of sand that escaped the hourglass.~_

Fakir falls silent, as the disturbing thought seeps into his brain. _His wife... Who was she?_

_~Let me take you to another story, trapped in the sands of time~_

"Oh, how exciting! This is a story about a writer, isn't it? A tragedy no doubt," the old man chuckles, curling his fingers, not knowing that this story...is about him.

~_Once upon a time, there was a man who died_~

~_Indeed, this man was tragic. For when he was living, he was foolish enough to believe in something even more absurd than tragedy—love~_

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_Tali's Notes:_

_Did you read it? Do you like it? I CERTAINLY HOPE SO!_

_I feel like the villains never get a proper story to themselves. Drosselmeyer definitely has some explaining to do._

_Since he's dead, I'll tell his story for him!_

_...Can you tell I'm having a lot of fun with this?_

_Well, be prepared. This story is inspired by some Grimm Brothers reading. It's certainly not as dark as their works, but it's shady, and I'll leave it at that._

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	2. Chapter 2

**Drosselmeyer's Story ~ Kapitel des Sonhes  
****_(Drosselmeyer's Story ~ Chapter of the Son)_**

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_(DISCLAIMER: You know the drill.)_

~_Once upon a time, there was a man who died_~

_~In his lifetime, this man was a son, though only by blood...~_

*crash*

The porcelain standing elegantly on the baroque buffet now falls and shatters into hopeless fragments. The plate clamors on the smooth rustic kitchen tiles, while the shouting ensues.  
"Why are you like this? What son would betray those he owes his life to!?" His father's white hand strikes with such familiar ferocity against him, but for the first time, the young man doesn't fall. For years, he's been struck, but he's refused to give in to his mother's and father's wishes, and he isn't going to bend now at seventeen years old  
"Forget what you want and become a lawyer!"  
Words like insolent, bastard, worthless, lazy... they have become the conditioned response from his father in everyday conversation. As for his mother, she rarely ever stands against him. Both of them lived through the revolutions, the rise and rapid fall in the economy, and the unification of Germany under King William I. Their lives have sculpted them to be money conscious.

Their son knows this well.

The young man quickly bends, dodging the tall and muscular form pummeling towards him. Taking this chance, he rushes through the open back door and shuts it behind him.

The sound of a closing door behind him is also familiar.

He strolls through his small impoverished town in late 19th century Germany, a time soon after the Industrial Revolution. This is the daily routine and the dim sights he sees. Though there's not a stream of daylight, there are women and children rushing home from the workhouses. The population increase shows itself all around him, more everyday.  
The boy was never like his growing number of neighbors. Their children listened: they studied to become mechanics and such, but ever since he was little, he strove for something else. He wasn't a part of the crowd, and he's never minded it.  
His little sister Genevieve, now five years old, will surely be popular. She's a good girl, but too innocent to realize the purpose she'll most likely serve—in the workhouse. As an older sibling, a little sympathy is to be expected, but this teenager is an exception. Perhaps his upbringing is the reason he can't share that feeling.  
If he can be identified for anything, it's his lack of pity for anyone and his oddly playful attitude. He could also be arrogant. At his ripe age, rebellion stirs every moment of the day. It would soon be hard to resist fighting back with his father. His father...  
Thinking of it, some time has passed. It must be alright to return home.

"Mother is probably home by now, too."

As expected, when he opens the door, two people with pale faces and unsympathetic smiles greet him.  
"Welcome home, mother." He brushes past her, not looking at either of them clearly. How can a woman like that smile so genuinely, when she isn't even his actual mother? At least his father stays indifferent.

He enters the bathroom to wash his face. His slightly tan complexion is the mark a foreign link in his genes. His hair is a lighter brown than his parents', and he shares the same, even lighter brown eyes, as his father. The seventeen-year old has heavy brows of a darker shade, stern yet open eyes, and a face with no outstanding features.  
He slips into his parents room and takes a last look at Genevieve before returning to his room for sleep.

The next day at breakfast, the arguments continue. At last, the blood of his youth can't take it anymore. He makes the decision when he sees his mother cradling Genevieve. She turns away from the scene of her aggressive husband charging at her illegitimate son. The boy skillfully dodges and lifts from under the dining table a sack with an arm strap.

"What is this prepostery?" says the perplexed father. The boy is tired not being heard, so he speaks with actions. He lifts the sack, pulling over his shoulder, and walks towards the door. "You... You really..." Those are words uttered without a care. "You fool! Richter!" He'd made it clear what his wishes were, both father and son. He isn't turning around even at the rare sound of his name.

"You're leaving?" His mother's stern voice is what surprises him. He turns and sees her near, while her husband watches in the kitchen. Genevieve is a curious onlooker, but in Richter's eyes, she's disinterested. Why should she care?  
"What will you do?" Her eyes now betray whatever kindness may have been. She turns cold, and he returns her glare. "You must become something that will support us—your family. Have you no integrity?"

"With all do respect Maryanne," he says belligerently, "I'm aware of the income, and it's more than enough for four occupants in a cottage. Don't think I've forgotten the time you accepted money and traded me to a workhouse for four years." He tightens the grip on his bag. "I will become no doctor, no lawyer, no mechanic. I will become a writer." She huffs in disbelief, wide-eyed at this unbreakable child.  
"And," he turns to look at his father, "for those who have given me a roof, I will repay my debts. You'll see. My name will be famous, I will be rich, and you will not get a cent more than you deserve."

The door slamming behind him never echoed so loud before. He starts to sprint towards freedom, and seconds later, he hears that wooden latch click.

"Richter Drossel, you are never to return to this house!" The distant voice rumbles, but it can't keep up with the speed of his feet. "Let me never see you're damned face again!" Suddenly, that voice feels unfamiliar.  
It is a stranger's call.  
All the young man can hear is the wind and his own two feet.

_~This is the day Richter Drossel became an independent teenager, a disowned member of a family of strangers, seeking to become a writer~_

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_Tali's Notes:_

_Richter Drossel's parents expected him to grow out of his desire to write. When they realized he never would, they became unsympathetic._

_They were both selfish and caring._

_For the most part, they barely play a role in Drosselmeyer's story,_

_but they weren't a very a big part of Richter Drossel's life either._

_After this incident, Richter will only approach his family once, much later on._

_His little sister grows up to admire her big brother very much..._

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